


Down At Your Door

by bluestalking



Category: Love Actually (2003)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestalking/pseuds/bluestalking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” he says into a lull of Billy’s somewhat lopsided conversation. “Do you really not know what you’re doing for Christmas?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down At Your Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleflink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/gifts).



“So, Billy,” he says to himself in the mirror. “What are...your plans for Christmas?”

It would be a stupid question. He knows Billy Mack’s plans better than his own nine tenths of the time. He’s the one who gets them anywhere they’re meant to be, after all. He’s the only one who keeps an actual calendar. Nothing has ever changed that, and any plan Joe doesn’t know already isn’t one he should worry about, if he values his nerves. Joe shouldn’t have to ask.

He won’t ask.

~

It’s December the fifteenth, and they’re doing a radio interview today. There’s five scheduled this week:: one year since Billy Mack’s big Christmas comeback. How are you doing now, Billy? Any prospects for new material, Billy? What’s it like to be back on tour, Billy? It’s an old schtick but Joe doesn’t mind, as long as they’re at this end of it. It was the once-yearly “where are they now?”s that got to him, and even then not because the DJs were insensitive and the questions never changed.

For a while, it had gotten so there wasn’t much to say, except for Billy’s usual garbage. Joe had worried. Billy hadn’t, because he was a charmer, but not all that clever about himself. Billy would have to be tumbling off the edge of a cliff before he’d ever notice it was there, and Joe had doubts about whether he’d ever stop laughing before he hit the ground. Last year, that piece of shit Christmas record had saved him. If Billy wasn’t aware of that, it was only because Joe hadn’t told him.

The host is fresh-faced and young and obviously full of ambition, though Joe wouldn’t lay odds on how far you can go as a Birmingham radio DJ. They haven’t met this one before, or there’d be more healthy fear beneath his jolly attitude. As much of a _riot_ as Billy might be, plenty of people haven’t invited him back for a second show. Especially not before watershed.

Joe tucks himself out of the way and prays, which is what he usually does, though less desperately lately because Billy’s cock-ups don’t seem to be putting them on the street. He ignores all the usual questions, especially as Billy doesn’t seem to be doing anything too atrocious with them. Right at the end of the segment, the DJ asks, “So, Billy--what are your plans for the holidays? Big parties? Something a little cosier?”

Joe can see Billy’s expressions, exaggerated enough to be visible where they’re reflected in the glass partition.

“Well, I don’t know, Tommy,” he says rakishly. “I don’t like to plan. We’ll see who makes the best offer, eh?”

“Might want to hurry up or all the offers’ll be closed,” the DJ jokes. Same old stuff, Joe thinks. Every time. At least Billy is charming them without self destructing.

But he feels a little stiff, a little old, when Billy answers, “Yes, you’re quite right. I’d hate to have to beg! Better not say Billy Mack had such a bad comeback he didn’t have anywhere to spend Christmas.”

“No indeed,” the DJ says, spotting his cue, “and let’s hope everyone listening knows where _they’ll_ be spending this holiday season. Thank you very much, Billy, it’s been a pleasure having you on.”

It always is, for every second Billy wants it to be.

Joe drives them back to London, which seems to take a thousand years. He takes care not to ask anything he doesn’t want answered until they’re nearly in sight of Billy’s flat.

“So,” he says into a lull of Billy’s somewhat lopsided conversation. “Do you really not know what you’re doing for Christmas?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Billy says carelessly. “What are _you_ doing?”

“I suppose I could see my--” Joe starts, but that’s a flat out lie. There’s no _my_ of any kind he’d like to go to the effort of coercing into sharing their Christmas. He coerces a combative, aging child every other day of the year; he hardly wants to add to their number. “Well, I could see plenty of my family, but I think I’ll just stay in this year.”

“You stay in _every_ year, chubs,” Billy says.

Joe isn’t injured by Billy being his heartless, cheery self. He at least has the instincts not to take it personally. Obviously Joe isn’t going to have anywhere to spend Christmas--he never does. And naturally Billy will dangle everything over Joe’s head, whether he means to or not. Nothing to be upset about; so Joe isn’t.

“That’s me,” Joe says sedately, and he doesn’t bring up that Billy stayed in too, last year. It didn’t come to much, not past that first declaration--turned immediately to porn, in fact, and not the kind you did anything about.

“I have a whole pile of invites again, it seems,” says Billy. “ _You_ know. You read the mail.”

“I do.”

“Maybe I should try Elton’s again?” Billy suggests. He’s pointing his crazed old laser eyes at Joe, who is trying to navigate a roundabout. He really despises roundabouts.

“Could do,” he says tightly, counting off exits.

“Shame,” Billy says. “I thought for sure you’d be asking me to share Christmas with _you.”_

Joe veers correctly onto the normal road again and says gruffly, “I’m not likely to throw your kind of party, Billy. And I don’t think I’d much like going to any, either.”

“Oh, well,” Billy says, and thankfully lapses into silence the rest of the way back to his flat.

“There you are,” Joe says. “Well done on the interview. Sounded great. Remember we’re taking that meeting tomorrow. About the new record.”

“As if there is one,” Billy says. “Ta, manager. I’d ask you in for a drink if you were any fun as a drunk.”

He slams the car door shut. Joe mutters, “Ta very much to you too,” and drives off in more of a temper than he’d like.

~

The meeting about the new record goes about as well as it can with Billy not even pretending he’s got anything to record. Joe is grateful, relatively speaking. He goes home and manages to relax--nice cup of tea, radio on, once there’s one of Billy’s songs on and the DJ doesn’t say anything terrible. He wonders if he ought to get a dog.

Billy calls right as Joe feels a desperate need to order takeaway.

“Joe!” Billy says. “Just called to ask. Which of these _excellent_ Christmas invitations do you think would do me the most good _professionally?”_

He’s obviously in a mood, and Joe isn’t in the mood to deal with it. He will, of course, but he’s not pleased about it. “I don’t know,” he starts, and Billy interrupts.

“You haven’t heard them yet. I’ve narrowed it down.”

“A’ight,” says Joe, plucking at the corner of an Indian takeaway menu and thinking sadly of chicken korma. “Give us the new list, then.”

Billy does, and Joe dutifully hands back all the pros and cons, the number order of a proper family holiday. He adds on, before he can stop, “I must say, though, Bill, I rather thought you’d had a real change of heart about the holidays, last year.”

There’s a wee pause, and a chuckle, and Billy says, “Well, old boy, maybe so, but I reckon what _you_ want for Christmas is a bit of peace and quiet and for me to do my job, eh?”

“Oh, aye,” Joe answers automatically.

“Oh, aye,” Bill agrees brightly. “That was all. Ta!”

He hangs up, and Joe is left prodding at his mobile to be sure he’s really gone (Joe misses the days of a proper dial tone) and feels pinched at last.

“No need to be mean,” he mutters to himself.

He orders his food to carry out so there’s a nice brisk December walk to get it, but the walk doesn’t help, and neither does the curry. It’s no use. He’s felt it creeping up for weeks, and it’s all there, now--now that he’s said _last year_ straight up, said it directly and had it thrown in his face. He knows Billy means it, all that fat, sad manager stuff. He knows Billy likes young women, loud parties, and lots of booze. It’s only Joe’s trouble, really, that for a moment last year he’d thought Billy wasn’t being nasty, only taking the piss. If for another he’d thought Billy _wasn’t_ taking the piss. When he’d thought maybe after all Billy was as loyal to Joe as vice versa. Joe wouldn’t have minded the teasing, in that case. He’s used to it, and he’s got a thicker skin than he looks.

But Joe should know better by now. It hadn’t taken a minute for Billy to turn it all around--get drunk so I can forget it, watch girls because they’re infinitely preferable to barely touching you--and though it had felt good at the time Joe had known almost all along that it didn’t mean anything, not really. One abstract confession couldn’t carry a man forever, and he wasn’t blind to the caveats. How much Billy didn’t want to want whatever it was he’d wanted. And he how he obviously didn’t want it now.

If Joe could go back in time and shut him up and send him back off to Elton’s, he might well. He understands perfectly all the reasons someone wouldn’t want him. He _agrees_ with most of them. But he wishes he hadn’t let himself be so vulnerable for thirty seconds last December.

~

The twenty-third is their last appearance, on a daytime talk show, performing back to back with this year’s number one hopefuls. That means London, luckily, so not much travel. It’s a good show and Billy doesn’t offend anyone, unless there are any sensitive Blue fans in the audience. They go out for lunch with the crew and the other musicians after the shoot. One of the hopeful bands are actually worth a listen, and they’re interested in having Billy Mack in. One show, two, maybe a tour? Good news all around.

When he pulls up at Billy’s, Joe says, “Listen, I brought this--” He reaches into the back, feeling cumbersome and foolish. He does manage to snag the package with his fingertips, though he’s afraid his stomach shows. “I didn’t know if I’d see you again before Christmas,” he says. “So, that’s your gift. Happy Christmas. Cheers for a good year.”

“Oh right,” Billy says, looking down at the package and turning it over in his hands. “Well. Thanks. I didn’t bring yours with me, in fact I haven’t bought it yet, but you can wait, I guess. You want me to open it now or later?”

“Oh,” says Joe. “Later is fine.” He waves a useless hand. “It’s not even Christmas Eve.”

“Right,” says Billy. He gets out and goes inside.

 _Fuck,_ thinks Joe.

~

Joe gets home and it’s already near dark. Bloody winter, pitch dark night at bloody four o’clock in the afternoon. He throws down his keys and throws himself down in his chair. Hell with everything, really. 2004 has been a good year for Billy Mack; Joe is glad to see the back of it.

_Fuck._

He’s home ten minutes when the buzzer goes.

“Who’s there?” he asks it.

“Like I’m a fucking ghost!” Billy exclaims. “Let us in, pet. Us in this case being _me.”_

Joe buzzes him in.

“Forget something?” he asks Billy at the door.

“Yes. I mean, not _something,_ per se. But, come on. Let me in.”

Joe moves out of the way. Billy, to his surprise, keeps his mouth shut until the door’s locked.

“Joe!” Billy says then. He looks around like he’s never been here before, crashing his fist into his open palm. “I did open it. The present. It’s a very nice gift. A very--thoughtful gift.”

“You chased me down to say so?” Joe asks. “You could’ve called.”

“Yes, well. That didn’t seem pertinent. Useful. This did seem better.”

Joe shrugs. “All right, then.”

“Are you angry at me, chubs?” Billy asks, and Joe winces. He has a _name,_ he has a name and know he’s fat, thanks very much.

“No, I’m not angry with you, Bill,” he says.

“All right,” says Billy. “ _Excellent._ Now: am i rightly understanding that your plan is to enjoy Christmas--alone?”

“That seems to be the case,” Joe mumbles.

“And that is the preferred alternative to spending it with your old pal Billy,” Billy says. It doesn’t seem to be a question.

“What?” Joe says. “No, of course not, but you’ll be busy, won’t you.” Also not a question.

“Oh _balls,”_ says Billy cheerfully. “Say, do you remember that particular thing I may have said to you last Christmas?”

Joe hesitates. “The--‘You’re the--’”

“‘--fucking love of my life,’ yes, yes, that’s the one,” says Billy. “Now. I understand that you’re a tolerant fellow and you wouldn’t mind me being a poof, but on a personal level, I ask you, on a _personal_ level, did that particular sentiment completely repulse you?”

Joe looks at him blankly. “You made us watch pornos,” he says. “With tits. You brought home models. You’re not much good at being a poof.”

“You said _all right_ about the models--no. No. Hold on,” Billy says. “This is _very_ embarrassing and I don’t want to do it every fucking year.”

“No one’s asking,” Joe says, frowning.

“All right,” Billy says. “All I’m saying is I told you I...love you...and everything has stayed exactly as it was, and--oh, I like the way it was. I can carry on. What I’m asking, chubs, is if _you_ do? How things are, how they are right now, is this _best_ to you?”

Joe is close-mouthed.

“Anything?” Billy asks, his hands hanging in midair, waiting for an answer.

“I’m not rightly sure what you want, Bill,” Joe says evenly. “Perhaps you should tell me.”

“Ah,” Billy says, and clears his throat. “I suppose I’m asking if--it’s that you don’t mind Christmas without me, or if you _don’t want me_ for Christmas. Because I’ll throw off all those ridiculous parties again this year. Would in a second, I hope you know that.”

“Would you!” Joe says. “Listen, it’s nice of you to say, and I’m glad to be your friend. But I’m not stupid enough to think a bit of flirty hyperbole from Billy Mack means a damned thing. I don’t _mind_ you’ve got a hundred other people to think of, after yourself and before me. But you don’t have to come make fun of me months later because you’re embarrassed by your own joke.”

“Chubs--”

“ _There_ you go,” Joe says, throwing his hands up. “It’s not nice even to make fun, you know. I know I’m old, and fat, and dull, and I’d never be nothing but a bad joke next to all your fancy people and gorgeous girls. You’re happy there, and I’m happy to keep out of it and do the books. I know perfectly well even if you liked men I’d be last choice. I don’t mind, I really don’t, but I wish you wouldn’t rub it in.”

“Ch-- _Joe,”_ Billy starts carefully, as though Joe is a cosy old cat that’s discovered its claws and its temper all at once. “I don’t _like_ any of those people.”

“That’s even better, then, isn’t it?” Joe says. “That you’d rather bury yourself in blondes you can’t stand than give your best friend more than a brisk pat on the back.” Joe’s heart is pounding and his face is red, because he’s pretty sure he’s done it now, and he can’t play it off as a joke like Billy could.

“There’s a pickle,” Billy says, looking startled. “I went back to the _blondes_ because I’d made you _uncomfortable._ You’re always putting up with me. I did _mean_ it.”

“I thought,” says Joe, “I thought you were exaggerating.”

“No,” says Billy. “No, I was not--exaggerating. I’m just a coward.”

Joe thinks this over, and shakes his head.

“If I called my mother right now and said, ‘Happy Christmas, mum, I’m seeing Billy Mack--you know, romantically,’ what do you think she’d say?” Joe asks. “She’d say, ‘He treats you like shit, Joe, try for something better.’”

“Er,” says Billy.

“I mean it, Bill. You’ve been talking me down for years. I might not deserve better, but I’d still _like_ it.”

“Christ,” says Billy. “I think I’ve got to go. May I, or may I not, spend Christmas Eve with you?”

“You bloody well can!” Joe nearly shouts.

“Oh, good,” Billy says. “So sorry to have bothered you. So sorry.” He backs out of the flat too fast for Joe to work up a response.

~

Joes lays odds fifty-fifty that Billy will be over at his place Christmas Eve. He loses. Billy calls at noon and says, “Come over to my place. I can’t speak properly hanging around your depressing flat like a giant, drunken bat.”

That’s fair enough, Joe decides. (Both parts--Joe’s flat _is_ depressing, he supposes, but he doesn’t mind, because he’s not all that interested in the look of things.) When he gets to Billy’s, Billy lets him in and offers a drink, and then says, “Give us a hug, us again being me.” he holds out his arms, and Joe stares at him.

“See,” Billy starts, “I think we’ve found a little bit of our problem, here. Because here I am, line of your life, wasting away making cock jokes and drinking all our profits--still very handsome I suppose but what’s that worth?--and you very rightly don’t even want a hug from me. I couldn’t begin to guess if you tolerate, like me, or love me, but I’m pretty sure not a one of those feelings makes _any_ sense, so you can see why I’ve had a difficult time sorting it out.”

“Fair enough,” says Joe. “You’re a flirt and you’re a liar, and you make fun of everyone, especially me.”

“Is that _it?”_

“Yes. No. I suppose, also,” says Joe, “that, if I did fancy you, I’d still work for you and you’d still be an ass.”

“Maybe so,” Billy says moodily. “Raw deal, isn’t it? What a mess.”

Joe waits.

“I _am_ a coward,” Billy says, flinging himself down onto the sofa. “Here you are: I mean it, old man. I fucking love you.”

“To clean up your messes and keep your calendars, is that it?”

“Yes! I love that! But,” Billy says, “I could be _compelled_ to _change._ Even if you’re just my best friend in the world. I suppose it’s not entirely too late until you’re drooling into a pillow on your death bed.”

“Oh, right,” Joe says, smiling despite himself. He feels ill, by now, but even when he’s furious with Billy he can’t help being fond.

“Joe,” says Billy. “You’ve recently said some very true, horrible things about me, but I’ll tell you what--I’ve spent a whole year trying to decide if you hate me. Oh, I know--you love me like a very bad pet, which pisses on strangers. Not a great catch, I know. But I can’t shake it, even if it’s foolish and unlikely to turn into any...thing.”

“As if you’d ever touch me!” says Joe, and then blushes awfully. “I’m only saying, I’m not exactly your type.”

“Oh,” Billy says, nearly purring, “I think once we got past the initial _awkwardness_ , we could go pretty well anywhere you liked, with sex.”

“That’s ridiculous,” says Joe, willing himself not to be thrown. “You make fun of my weight all the time. In public, too!”

“Yes, because I am a _terrible_ person,” Billy says. “And I--let my cowardice turn into terrible things. That’s a good enough reason not to like me very much, I suppose. But I _do_ find you--exceedingly attractive. Lumps and all. Especially lumps. I’m just a mean-spirited, pompous old string bean, Joe. I’ve never had to curb my tongue at all, and I know perfectly well it’s gotten worse the longer I hang around being alive. I’m lucky to have you at all, old man.” He fidgets. “Now, I really wish you’d pass judgment and get it done with, because I’ve been about as honest as I can stand for at least the next year.”

Normally, Joe would back off, pretend to decide something, and then never speak of it again. Just leave an uncomfortable gap in all their conversations. But they’ve done that already, haven’t they, and Joe didn’t like it.

“I don’t expect a saint out of you,” he says.

“ _Good,”_ says Billy.

“But I won’t put up with this ‘chubs’ stuff anymore. If you pull that, you’ve got no manager _and_ no--no boyfriend.”

“ _Joe,”_ says Billy, wide-eyed. Joe relishes his astonishment, a bit; he doesn’t often get to astonish Billy. He swallows and tries to work out the next bit.

“And I’d prefer it,” he says finally, “if you talk with me about how you present to the public--you know. Whether I’m with you or not. Whether you go on hanging off all those twenty-year-old girls. Which you oughtn’t to do, by the way. You’re too old.”

“Joe,” Billy says, grinning.

“I’ll give it a try, anyway,” Joe says. “I can always leave you for a better man.”

“You can,” Billy agrees, and gets quickly to his feet. “You should.”

Joe doesn’t say anything for a minute, rather enjoying Billy’s flustered fidgeting.

“I can’t work out what I’ve done _right_ ,” Billy says. “I really can’t.” He grins at Joe, uncharacteristically bashful. 

“Here,” Joe says. “Happy Christmas, isn’t it? Give us a hug.”

“Us being us,” Billy agrees, beaming.

Joe shrugs peaceably, and holds up his arms. “Us being us,” he says.


End file.
